


The Tale of the Filthy Prince, the Bard, and the Crow

by Opalsong



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Anal Fingering, Aphrodisiacs, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Explicit Consent, F/M, Fisting, Grey Warden Stamina, Kink, Light BDSM, M/M, Mention of Knotting, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, No beta we die like mne, Overstimulation, Seduction, Sexual Roleplay, Storytelling, Virgin Alistair (Dragon Age), not on screen though, stylized writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 23:35:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20497220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalsong/pseuds/Opalsong
Summary: There are a few things you should know about Alistair.  He is a Grey Warden, and likely to become King.  Has is friends with the Hero of Fereldan and their various companions.  He is pretty much a lightweight for liquor.  Antivan Brandy makes him flushed and prone to linger on the curve of a shoulder or lips on a bottle.  And he has a filthy, filthy mouth once his filter falls away.





	The Tale of the Filthy Prince, the Bard, and the Crow

**Author's Note:**

> So last week I read a fic that I won't link here but I read it and I don't know what I expected but what I got was disappointment. And then a burning desire to do better. I wrote this fast and have no beta in this fandom and just honestly, I wrote this for fun and to get it out of my head so I'm not worried. Hopefully you find it fun too.

There are a few things you should know about Alistair. He is a Grey Warden, and likely to become King. And before that he was a Templar recruit. And first of all he was a bastard.

Alistair’s time as a Templar recruit was a lonely one. Unlike the other boys in his dorm, he was not there out of some higher calling or even voluntarily. The others tended to shun him for this. His outsider status was only intensified by his noble blood. None of the boys knew that his noble blood was royal blood, of course, but he was obviously too good to be around the likes of them and the noble children thought him below them. This led to Alistair growing up at the edges and on the fringe of his dorm. Meaning that when the boys of his dorm began to talk of relationships and sexual things, Alistair was never included. He would listen and watch, but none of the boys approached him to experiment with their newfound feelings and urges. None of the young women approached him either and he felt sure he would be rebuffed if he were to take initiative.

But Alistair found a way to participate, if only obliquely. For the young men of his dorm, the young people of the entire training center truly, would pass around salacious novels. These writings were the subject of much giggling when they were young, procured from the older recruits, and ribald jokes and stories as they grew older. Each piece of fiction would go missing for a day or two somewhere in the middle of it’s tenure in their dorm as Alistair frantically read and revelled in the naughty texts.

And Alistair found that he enjoyed these far beyond what his fellow recruits seemed to. He read in quiet moments during the day, taking the book to the privy where he touched himself as he read, subsuming himself within their worlds. Alistair also found that the more scandalous and shocking, the more he enjoyed them. He came up with stories of his own, unrealistic and depraved. 

But eventually Alistair was about to, reluctantly, take his vows and was recruited by Duncan, the Grey Warden. And in the Grey Wardens Alistair found what he had been longing for: a brotherhood. Or more accurately a siblinghood for there were women and men and those that did not claim either gender as theirs.

The Wardens accepted Alistair and teased but did not mock his blushing innocence. It became known that if talk turned to the salacious, Alistair would quickly resemble a beet and if asked to contribute would flee the room with haste. And thus none of the Warden’s approached him in truth, assuming that he was as other of their brethren were, uninterested and possibly even repulsed by the thought of those sorts of acts and none wished to make him more uncomfortable than light teasing.

One day however, when the Wardens were drinking in celebration, so very much like every alternate day, one of their number brought out a bottle of Antivan Brandy to share. Now, Alistair had drunk with the Wardens many times before and while he was no lightweight, that was due mainly to his size and his warrior’s physique. Wine made him cheerful and sleepy by turn and ale made him maudlin. He gamely tried this new liquor and found, to his growing embarrassment, that it affected him in ways that made his mind linger on the curve of a shoulder or the way lips wrapped around the bottle. Then talk turned sexual, as talk seemingly inevitably does in these situations, and Alistair could not help the way his body reacted, and he shifted, trying to hide. This only drew attention to himself and the gentle teasing began.

But as the liquor had loosened his control on his body, it also loosened his grip on his tongue. Alistair responded with a tale drawn partly from an old serial and partly from his imagination. He shaped it based on the reactions of his audience, who were now listening with wide eyes and rapt attention. For you see, Alistair was not good at reading social cues but was trained to read a battlefield and in this drunken moment he realized that to an extent he could read the room as he would a battle; this person shrunk away at the mention of a man forcefully taking another’s mouth, this person straightened and engaged with the idea of rope and ties, and yet another feigned disinterest while leaning in at the mention of a woman taking charge.

The Wardens in the room were left dazed and wanting, many heading back to rooms in twos and threes and more to enjoy the lovely images together.

However much Alistair dreaded facing his fellow Wardens the following morning, he need not have. One look at his tentative face and they all left it unremarked upon. It went the way of another Brother’s habit of begging for cuddles when tispy or a Sister’s admittance that she really wished to put her whole fist inside another; drunken joys that never saw the light of sobriety.

This, as well as Alistair’s natural shyness, was what led to Alistair more than once unwittingly winding the other Wardens up into an orgy and then awkwardly shuffling his way out of the room once his tale was complete. Stroking himself to the moans and screams in private. After the second time, the other Wardens presumed this was his preference and did not push.

This is how we end up with Alistair, a man whose imagination runs wild and tongue twists to match it, as still a blushing easily-embarrassed virgin when he meets with the Hero. Or more relevantly, when he meets Leliana and Zevran.

Along their journey the Hero’s group often drank in the evenings around camp. Carrying on the Wardens’ traditions if you will. And they drank what they found or could purchase on the road, thus mostly ale and wine and the occasional mead. Alistair partook with the others, facing teasing about his relative intolerance with good grace, having been used to it. 

Then there came the day that the ale was gone, most having been sacrificed to Oghren’s gut, and the Hero pulled out a bottle they found that day. Zevran identified it as “good Antivan Brandy! We are lucky, friends.” As the bottle was passed around Alistair declined, then declined again. When the group pushed slightly, he flushed all the way down his neck and excused himself.

The Hero, naturally, was regretful the following morning but Alistair would not hear of an apology. Later, Leliana and Zevran cornered him on the road and extracted a confession that the Brandy affected him differently than other spirits. His flush as he spoke intrigued both of his companions. However there were other concerns. Pressing ones. With teeth and taint bearing down on them.

Alistair fully forgot the encounter, Antivan Brandy was never again offered around the fire and thus he thought the matter long past. Zevran and Leliana did not forget however and on the eve of their final stand - well, more truthfully, several eves before their final stand for it would not do to be awkward and hungover for the most important battle of their lives regardless of the amount of people who did so and both the bards and crows general abilities to fight under the influence. As well, there was no time for revelry during the rush to save Denerim. In any case, it was evening and they were in Redcliff and Alistair had been made king but the archdemon still lived. And they had the evening free.

Zevran brandished a bottle of the finest Antivan Brandy he could find and Leliana smiled her softest, most disarming smile, and they descended upon the room of the unsuspecting Bastard-Prince.

Alistair flushed and stammered at their interest, “Aren’t there more interesting people to hang out with? It’s close to our battle against the Archdemon, shouldn’t you be out finding... people to be with?”

“Ah, you mean indulging in the sensual delights of the body?” Zevran replied, slipping lithely past Alistair into the room.

Leliana giggled as she followed, “But the company of friends is more worthy of our time, no?”

What followed was as any other evening on the road, drinking and conversation. At first, topics like complaining about the darkspawn, which all of them contributed to, reigned. But as the wine flowed, topics became more personal, Alistair grumbled about being made king, Leliana stared morosely at her cup as she carefully talked around her betrayal, and Zevran drank three glasses in a row as he spoke with a brittle smile about how he was better off with Talisen dead.

Eventually Alistair thought to ask about the others, would their small group be expanding?

To which Zevran answered, a sly smile on his lips, “No, my friend, Oghren is attempting to drink our hosts out of house and home; Shale, I believe, is slaughtering the local pidgeon population; Sten is either polishing his sword or has taken our pup on a nightly patrol, and our Warden friend is spending some personal time with Morrigan.”

Leliana giggled again and Alistair flushed at the implication.

And that is when they pounced, Leliana produced Zevran’s Brandy with a flourish. Zevran startled then settled back into a lazy smirk, complimenting her talented fingers. Alistair flushed and demured and denied when they called him out.

“This does not count as mixed company, so there is no reason not to partake. It is merely myself and Leliana.”

“If you truly do not wish to partake we will leave the matter,” Leliana gifted Zevran with a stern look at this, “however, your flushed face is intriguing. Do you truly dislike Antivan Brandy?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it. I just. I just,” Alistair stammered and fidgeted before finally blurting out, “it makes me get all,” he broke off waving his hands in an opaque way that explained nothing. His flush, however, explained a great deal, and he ended with a mumbled, “and then I talk. A lot. It’s embarrassing”

The other two sat in silence for a moment.

“Well, I highly doubt you will say anything that myself and our lovely bard have not heard before so that is fine, yes? And if you are worried about judgement or ridicule in the light of the morning, do not, this night will not be mentioned outside the door.”

Alistair thought about this and Zevran and Leliana allowed the silence, waiting patiently.

“Sure, why not?” Alistair muttered, “I’ll be dead because of killing the archdemon or feel like it because of the crown by next week so why not embarrass myself one last time.”

Both of his companions cheered as Alistair grabbed the bottle and opened it, but neither forgot the fatalistic comment. They exchanged looks, but let it lie for the night.

Alistair opened the bottle and took a long drink. Professing, as he passed the bottle on, to truly enjoying the beverage in a way he did not with wine and ale. They drank and spoke of light topics, such as wine vintages and what other spirits Alistair might like. All of them drunkenly promised to sample as many different spirits together as possible once Alistair was king.

Eventually, however, Alistair’s flush was too warm and his body was too ready for other things and Leliana and Zevran could tell. Both wished to hear this ‘talk’ of Alistair’s, thinking it to be the not-so-naughty ramblings of a blushing virgin. And so Zevran brought up Morrigan and their leader and what they could be doing. He contributed a few of his own ideas, Morrigan was surely the one in charge of that encounter. Leliana continued the thought and expounded upon it. When Alistiar’s turn came both expected him to return the encounter to kissing. Their eyes widened and their mouths dropped open as Alistair laid out an encounter that began with some innocent tussling and ended with Morrigan using her shapeshifting to grow an appendage that, as far as any of them were aware, she did not have naturally, and using it to take their leader hard and fast and rough. And eventually swelling at the base, due to its beastial nature, and locking them together as she filled their leader to excess. The tale was lengthy and incredibly detailed, as good as any bard’s.

When he was finished, both Leliana and Zevran were flushed and aroused, stunned that their blushing innocent companion was able to imagine such filth.

“And such detail!” Zevran said in amazement.

“You are as good as any bard and filthier than most.” Leliana’s compliments were true.

Alistair flushed and verbally fumbled, not expecting the praise.

Zevran wanted more, and he could tell Leliana felt the same, her lips and the way she bit them gave her away, “that is not the only room occupied with potential lovers… you could tell us another tale of another room if you wished.”

Alistair blinked as his drunken brain attempted to follow the implications, “I, uh, I’m pretty sure that Sten sharpening with his sword was an innuendo. It was an innuendo right? But I don’t think I want to contemplate Sten, um, ‘sharpening with his sword’. So no? But I could come up with something else I guess?”

Leliana giggled yet again. “He means us. We are a room full of potential. Will you tell us what could be happening behind our closed door?”

Zevran grinned lazily but his eyes sharpened with anticipation, “yes, tell us what you wish to do to us,” he paused, “or we to you, hm?”

And Alistair blinked for several moments before his flush redoubled. It was not his norm to include himself in these tales but that is what Leliana and Zevran were clearly asking for. He thought for a moment before the words began to fall from his mouth without filter.

“Behind the second door to the left, a bastard prince lay waiting for morning. For in the morn he was to go slay a great beast and claim his kingdom. But in the night there came a knock on his door and when he opened it, he found a very pretty woman in chantry robes on the other side. She explained he was here to bless him for the battle tomorrow.

“The prince, being the foolish type, let her in.” Alistair noticed that at his description of himself as foolish, both of his companions frowned. “For he knew she was no chantry sister but she was pretty enough that he did not care about her true intentions.” Leliana smiled at that and while Zevran did not wholly relax, he seemed satisfied.

“The bastard prince knelt to receive the blessing and the woman smiled, knowing she could have some fun with him, she had seen the way his eyes followed her curves before dropping swiftly with a blush, before she completed her Bard’s duties and left him dead on behalf of her benefactor.”

Leliana actually made a slight noise of protest at the thought of her seducing Alistair only to murder him for her patron. Alistair blinked at that but continued, “She bent, breaking character only slightly and whispering to him that he knew the word should he wish to drop the facade. He smiled beatifically up at her and called her a beautiful woman of the cloth.”

Leliana and Zevran both startled and then wholly relaxed at the introduction of a watchword, changing this from a tale of princes and assassins to a tale of friends playing in bed. Alistair saw that and went on to describe the way Leliana had him at her feet, which had her leaning forward with interest, and how she played the innocent prince and seduced him. Asking him to kiss her holy feet, then lift her robes and kiss her higher and higher yet.

“She had him seated on the bed, gasping with eyes rolled to the heavens in unholy prayer, as she kissed his neck and allowed her bottom to just brush the bits of him that wanted attention the most.

“This was when another entered the room. An elf lounged in the abandoned chair and coughed once to make his presence known.”

Zevran crowed at delight with his entrance.

“The Bard did not startle but the prince jumped and nearly fell off the bed, unseating the Bard. The Crow merely smirked and asked the Bard if she would share her prize for the evening. The Bard narrowed her eyes and, with a gesture, indicated he should work for his chance at the contract. The Crow knelt before the prince and bared his eagerness. Then he leaned forward and worshipped him, working his length with his mouth and winding the prince’s desire higher and higher.

“When the prince was about to tip from anticipation to that final burst of ecstasy, the Crow pulled away, even as the prince gasped and bucked, pleading for his mouth to return and finish. But the Crow asked his partner if they should make the prince wait, wind him higher and higher but stop short before ever giving him what he truly wanted. Or, if they should let him finish now only to have their way with him after.”

Alistair watched his companions closely at this choice. Both had gleaming eyes at the first option but at the second? Leliana’s mouth dropped open with wonder and Zevran’s hand twitched where it rested in his lap, arcing slightly towards the bulge in his pants.

“The Bard answered by kneeling next to the Crow and blessing the prince with her mouth. The prince cried out in ecstasy, calling for the maker and for his companions, and spent himself in the ‘sister’s’ mouth.

“After, when he lay panting on the bed, the Crow retrieved the rope he sometimes used in his work. He showed it to the Bard and she smiled. They worked swiftly and silently, moving the overwhelmed prince before he knew what was happening. They tied him, open and splayed, on the bed. And when he came to enough to voice slight concern, the Crow offered him a bottle to quench his thirst. The prince drank eagerly from the Crow’s hand. 

“When he was finished, the Crow pet through his hair and began to circle a finger around the prince’s nipple. The Bard moved up on the other side of the prince and took the empty bottle, questioning what had inhabited it. The Crow smiled as the prince began to gasp and pant. It was a special concoction made to drive the drinker mad with lust, to give them preternatural stamina. The prince would not be truly done until the Crow gave him the antidote.”

Leliana actually gasped at this, eyes wide and lips swollen from biting. Zevran had moved to press and rub slowly at himself, face enraptured.

“The Bard laughed in delight and mounted the prince’s face. She told him to worship his maker and he buried his face between her legs and set to work. The Crow returned his attention to the prince’s chest, pinching and petting with his fingers and biting and sucking with his mouth until the prince’s chest was full of scattered bruises and the prince was arching and thrashing in his bonds as he reached that peak again, most intimate parts untouched, spilling his seed and making a mess of himself.

“The Bard gasped and ground down on his face, briefly cutting off all air as she chased her own face of the Maker. The prince was not yet finished his own descent as the lack of air brought him close again and the Crow noticed, put a hand upon him, and roughly brought him over again. The prince screamed at this, the pain of pleasure too close together overwhelming him.

“And yet, as the Crow promised, he was not done. Still was he ready for more. At least bodily, his mind was foggy with pleasure and pain. He tried to twist away as the Crow continued to stroke him, still ready to be mounted yet too sensitive for touch to bring anything but pain. The Crow left off and asked the Bard if she wished to switch places. The Bard replied that while she would indeed love to see the Prince’s lips stretched wide and gagging around the Crow, she wished the encounter last longer. The Crow narrowed his eyes at the challenge and made a quip about seeing and the lack of visuals what with her Vestments of the Chantry in the way. The Bard merely laughed and lifted them teasingly to give a glimpse of her most intimate parts and the Prince’s worshipping mouth.

“The Crow returned to tormenting the Prince, deft fingers drifting lower to flirt with the pucker below. He retrieved oil from somewhere on his person, one never knows with Crows, and began to flit and flutter about the sensitive area. Ever so slowly he breached the Prince with a finger, then two. He found the spot within that made the Prince strain at the ropes holding him and push onto the invading fingers. The Crow bullied that place relentlessly and pushed the Prince over the edge once more with just that feeling alone.

“The Bard smiled and leaned down, avoiding the mess on the Prince’s belly, and began to kiss his most sensitive part. The Crow grinned and leaned in as well. The Prince was both pained and wanting. Attempting to twist away but also towards. They took turns using all their expertise on him and playing together.

“Sooner, rather than later, the Bard left off to chase her own pleasure once more and the Crow took the Prince in his mouth and worked his fingers inside him and brought him to the edge once more, pulling off with perfect timing to let the Prince spill once more over himself.

“The Bard climbed off her mount on shaky legs, revealing the sopping mouth and face of the Prince. Both took a step back, the Crow pulling his fingers swiftly from their heated embrace. The Bard’s legs trembled and the Crow’s trousers were nearly tearing open with the force of his desire. The Prince was a mess, covered in evidence of his own pleasure and the Bard’s; mouth parted and gasping at the ceiling, hips twitching and hole grasping at nothing. Within no time at all he began making tiny whining noises, begging without words.

“The Bard slyly mentioned bringing him to a certain tavern they knew and allowing whomsoever please have a turn with him, in this state he would surely enjoy the mess of it.”

Zevran looked intrigued at this turn but Leliana frowned.

“The Crow laughed with delight but pointed out the logistical problem of getting the Prince there in this state. He proposed that rather than many intrusions, the Prince might be equally overwhelmed by one, much more impressive intrusion. The Bard gave the Crow a skeptical look and judged the bulge in his trousers intensely. The Crow just laughed and shook his head, taking her hand and folding it into a fist.”

At this, Leliana’s eyes lit up again and Zevran let out a little breathy noise.

“The Bard’s eyes lit up and she asked what he would be doing. The Crow would be taking his pleasure as that she had had hers already. The Prince gasped and whined at these two making plans and ignoring him, someone finally not asking for his input or approval.

“So the Bard began, slipping three fingers in easily, tormenting that most sensitive spot for a moment before ignoring it completely. As she added more oil and more fingers the Prince lay, gasping and overwhelmed and wanting more, staring at the ceiling and unable and unwilling, to escape the ropes. 

“By the time the Bard had her entire hand inside him, the Prince was no longer even twitching, a mere vessel for her pleasure.

“But then the Bard stopped and the Crow hopped onto the bed, jostling everything and making the Prince cry out in pleasure. His most intimate parts had been drooling over his belly, liquid squeezed from him as one slowly juices a lime. The Crow hovered over his middle, not touching the mess. The Prince was able to feel the heat of his body on the parts that wanted it most.

“Then the Crow reached back, lined up, and sank down upon him, groaning with pleasure. The moment he was seated, the Bard closed her hand into a fist, bulging the Prince’s insides and causing him to scream and writhe, galloping over the edge without warning. He had been in a hazy state of overwhelmed pleasure for so long that this completion caught him entire by surprise and he screamed and twisted and bucked in ecstasy.

“The Crow did not even let him finish before pursuing his own pleasure, riding him hard, hips slamming and twisting, taking everything from the Prince. The Bard smiled and began twisting her fist inside him. The Prince was lost, never sure if he dropped out of that ecstasy and was shoved back into it or if he just stayed there in one long bout of delirium.

“Finally, the Crow dropped his hand to his own need. He also opened a vial and emptied it’s contents into his own mouth and then leaned over to kiss the Prince, feeding him the antidote in the most intimate of manners. Then he brought himself over, adding to the mess. He slid off just in time for both of the tormentors to see the Prince scream and cover himself one last time.

“The Crow lay to the side as the Bard extracted her hand and washed it in the basin. They both gazed upon the Prince and smiled, they would complete their contract… eventually. There was so much fun to be had with their target first.”

Alistair trailed off with the end of the tale. Leliana squirmed ever so slightly, mouth parted and thighs rubbing together but somewhat awkward now that the tale was complete. 

Zevran however, had his hand inside his trousers, “A masterful tale, Alistair. The things we did to you.”

Alistair coughed with embarrassment and crossed his legs to try and hide his own excitement.

“Would you like to see if we could play it out? I have no magical Crow love poison but I do have a very talented tongue if I do say so.” Zevran continued.

“I. what? You want. What?” Alistair spluttered.

But Leliana only made a small “oh” and smiled, exchanging a look at Zevran. “Yes, will you let us show you how a Bard and a Crow would truly take advantage of their friendship with the King-to-Be?”

“I’m not. I haven’t” Alistair sputtered more.

“If you are truly not interested, merely say the word, or even no word at all. We will leave this, no one will know outside this room and we will not press if you do not tell us directly that you wish this. No harm done!” Zevran took his hand out of his waistband, “But I truly do need to take care of this so if you wish it, I will take myself elsewhere for a moment and return when I am ready for less... intense talk.”

Leliana smiled softly at Alistair, though her eyes were burning with desire, “We know you have no experience Alistair. If you truly do not wish for us to find pleasure together neither of us will be offended, however, if it is merely inexperience and embarrassment holding you back, let us help you with that.”

Alistair was flushed red and wide eyed. He stammered for a moment and said, “Yes.”

And that, dear reader, is how the King of Fereldan caught his two lovers, a Bard and a Crow.


End file.
